


say the words that hold your heart

by Lizzen



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Changing POV, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: An intimacy shared between two survivors within the opening volley of peacetime





	say the words that hold your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merryghoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merryghoul/gifts).



> A Femslashex_2017 treat for merryghoul

The eventual, inevitable sacking of King’s Landing is mostly bloodless as Rhaegal roars from above. There are those who cower in terror, throwing down their weapons; there are others who sing joyous songs and raise their hands to the sky. The former are few, the latter are many. 

There’s nothing so promising as peace. 

*  
It’s Yara who finds her first. Yells for her men to come and break the cell doors down. It’s not hard to see, to understand what torture Ellaria has been been living for months, so Yara ignores it. Almost clinically moves close, and breaks the chains holding the living woman in the room. There are the marks of a gag on her, but no gag to be found; and yet, Ellaria speaks nary a word. Does not flinch, doesn’t even move. Her gaze is unfocused. Yara considers this, knowing what the tortured are and what they do (knowing what she herself is and what she did). So, she reaches down and takes hold of Ellaria’s chin, grips it tight and looks into her eyes. Says the only thing that will comfort. 

“They’re dead,” she says. 

Hoarse: “All of them?”

And Yara smiles then. So wide. 

Ellaria locks eyes on her, swallows roughly, and Yara sees a glimpse of the fearsome lady she met years ago. Hopes to see more of her. 

And Ellaria asks: “The Dragon Queen?”

There’s many words that she could say, so many answers. So, Yara lands upon: “Questions are for those who’ve bathed and dressed as free women. And my new rooms have impressive baths. Come.”

When she offers her hand, Ellaria takes it willingly. And does not even look back as they stagger out.

*  
Ellaria stares out at the sea, out beyond the points where waves crash into rocks. Out, and away, far, far away. Her mind is a void; emptiness is her only solace, her only way to sanity in this strange place and strange time. And she’s sure the wetness on her cheeks isn’t just sea spray. 

“I hear Dorne is so beautiful as winter wanes,” a voice says from behind her, and a man appears in the periphery of her vision. Siddles close enough to hear, but far enough to give her space. His accent places him far from here. “I was born there, a breathtaking place I’ve never known. Born of parents I never knew.”

“Dornish?” she asks.

“No.”

“Pity.” 

Silence permeates for a while, before: “Our sorrow is with you, my lady.”

She bristles a little but stinging words remain in her throat. She is not the woman she once was. Instead, she says: “I do not know you by sight.”

He hesitates. “Some call me Jon.” 

And when she turns, gives him her full attention, she notes the richness of his cloth and the fierce looking guardsmen just out of earshot. “Just Jon?” she says. 

“I have some new titles of late, tiresome things.” He shrugs and his hand moves carelessly to the hilt of his sword, a wolf shaped carving. 

She considers this curiosity. “Yara quite likes _her_ new title.”

Jon smiles. “She quite likes _you_. Guards you close. I had to promise a lot to get this near you.”

There’s a shiver down her spine. She knows what happens to the people who get close to her. But perhaps, perhaps in this new world-- “Is Daenerys queen now?” she asks. “Yara wouldn’t answer.”

And he looks away, towards the point she was staring at earlier. “House Targaryen reigns over all of Westeros. And, they say the rightful king sits on the iron throne.”

She sniffs. “Exactly what we needed at the end of this, more silver haired kings with a black river of madness running through their veins.” It’s a bitter chuckle that rises out of her, oddly echoed in the man next to her. “I wonder where they found him and why she--.” Ellaria pauses. “Did Daenerys die?”

Jon is silent at the question and it’s infuriating. Her mouth opens to chastise him that she’s no child when: “The dead have a new sovereign, one better than the last.” And a sadness seems to overwhelm him. 

More riddles tinged with new information. Yara’s spoken of the army of the dead, and the great deeds she achieved in the violence that ensued. Before then, she remembers ravens from Castle Black, and children’s stories of White Walkers. And it’s all something she’s never truly understood. And why consider it when so much more was pressing at the time? But now. Now she ponders. 

And after some time, she asks: “Why did you wish to speak with me?”

“Soon we must speak at length, about Dorne, and about the Warden of the South. And in crowded chambers compared with this broad expanse of sky and sea. I wanted to know you first, and for you to know me.” And he pauses. “I would like us to be allies.”

“Allies.” Something clicks: “You’re the new king.” And she gazes at him with an even look. 

Meeting her gaze, he says, “Unfortunately.” 

Ellaria measures him with her eyes, and surprising herself, she decides she likes him.

*  
The heralds announce: “YARA, FIRST OF HER NAME, HOUSE GREYJOY, QUEEN OF THE IRON ISLANDS, QUEEN OF SALT AND ROCK, DAUGHTER OF THE SEA WIND, LADY REAPER OF PYKE, DEVASTATOR OF THE DEAD.” The room rings with the sound of feet stomping on the ground. And to follow, “AND ELLARIA OF DORNE, THE LADY OF SUNSPEAR, HONORED GUEST OF THE KING.” Ellaria flinches at this, but holds still as many faces turn to see her. Breathes in and out.

In her newest finest, she walks two steps behind Yara into a feast. She lifts her chin high, expecting derision for the broken bastard of the south, but is only met with curious looks. 

She’s never seen so many northerners in her life. Their rich accents and loud voices boom through the hall. She assumes they will sit with the Ironborn or any Dornish delegation, but those of all houses mix and mingle. A kaleidoscope of colors and voices and opinions, but smiles are present on each face.

At the front is the king and that red haired Stark girl. _Sansa_ , she thinks, surprised to find her alive. And as she ponders this, Yara grabs her arm and pulls her close. “You think too hard,” she says and thrusts a flagon of wine into her hand. “I would have you drink first, then continue that thought. Then drink again.”

The wine isn’t Dornish, so she winces at the first sip, and less at the second. The liquid is gone in moments, warming her belly and easing her anxiety in this strange place with such strange people in it. 

Things were different so long ago. _I was so different so long ago_ , she thinks, and shivers from what must be rage. 

Snapping her fingers, Yara gestures to the servants who quickly bring them food, and more food, and more food after that. Ellaria still recovers from her time below, and eats lightly. But she listens to Yara speak, leans into the lilt of her voice and the fire in her tongue. A distraction, very much wanted, as the room buzzes with laughter and tales retold. 

The more wine she drinks, the more relaxed she feels. While her tongue stays still in her mouth, her hand slips over, grips Yara’s under the table and remains there. A hard grip followed by a lighter one that lingers. Yara turns to smile at her, a real honest smile, and returns to her story of valor. 

_A remarkable woman_ , she thinks. _Brave and unyielding and dangerous._ There is admiration, and there is a softness growing in her heart. 

*  
Yara doesn’t mean to, it wasn’t planned or anything, but the moment she pulls Ellaria away from the feast, she pulls her into her arms. Kisses her soundly. It’s a strange thing to do, but wine’s been drunk and her heart is racing after telling story after story about their deeds past. What happened to her after Theon-- after he saved her. 

What wonderful things she did then. 

And what wonderful things she does now, mouth pressed against such a pretty mouth. Ellaria sighs into it, her hand clutching Yara’s so tight it hurts. And they kiss there, in the light of torches and passed by the occasional guard or reveler. 

Till this moment, they’ve been bedmates without touching; lying so close and living in each other’s peripheries. They bathed together that first night but it was for healing alone; an intimacy between two survivors. Now, _now_ \--

“Is this alright?” she breathes at last, between kisses, and Ellaria nods. Yara knows she is hurting, she is something akin to the shell of the woman she once was. But in this moment, she sees a glimpse of the peerless ruler of Dorne; brave and unyielding and dangerous. 

There’s the question of how much and where, and Yara decides the answer: everything and all at once. By the time they arrive at their shared chambers, Yara’s lips are swollen from kisses and there’s likely to be five bruises from fingers digging into her hip. The door closed, clothes are shed, and shoes discarded and they don’t make it to the bedroom. 

Ellaria gets her mouth on Yara’s sex almost immediately -- which is unfair and not according to plan -- but Yara loses the ability to think rationally the more Ellaria’s tongue does its good work. Yara’s had plenty of lovers, but this is something else. So often her pleasure is marked as sudden, sharp; not this lingering bliss that radiates from inside of her to the tips of her fingers and toes. “Do it again,” she says, and in a voice too commanding for such a sweet game, but there’s nothing for it. 

Staring up at the ceiling, Yara whimpers softly because this time, this time Ellaria is slow and steady; a luxurious rhythm that gets no where anywhere fast. Curses flow out of her mouth now, being brought to the brink, to a long pause, and then brought back down to just a mind numbing sense of arousal. Brilliant, brilliant lovemaking from this brilliant woman, and Yara finds herself in an embarrassing state of sighs and moans and the inability to come against that judicious mouth. 

“Mercy,” she says at last. “Mercy for the Ironborn, my lady.”

And Ellaria sweeps her tongue; once, twice. And it’s all over. A bright and blinding orgasm that shudders through the entire length of her, a shocking thing. Yara yells, of course, and has no sense of what words are cresting out of her. All she knows is that when she’s able, when it’s over, she gets up on her elbows and hoarsely says: “oh, you _beauty_.” And in her mind, she thinks: _what terrible things I will do to you now._

They kiss then. The kisses of women starved for affection, starved for real intimacy. Ravenous for each other’s mouths and tongues and teeth. Lips pressed against lips, against the skin of their necks, and easily wandering to kiss the swell of naked breasts. A simple sort of exchange, until--

Ellaria sucks neatly on Yara’s nipple; a play that she’s not experienced in a long while. And it’s stunning how fast pleasure races from her skin to her cunt; throbbing there in such a state of abject wantonness. It’s a shock, it’s a delight, that the very act makes Yara come again -- soft and gentle this time -- with Ellaria’s tongue hard against her breast. 

Eyes narrow and chin hardened, Yara adjusts their position to thrust two fingers almost violently into Ellaria’s sex. She lingers there for a moment, staring at Ellaria’s surprised face and reveling in how incredibly wet she is. “Don’t hold back,” Ellaria whispers. “I’ll know if you do.” At that, Yara smiles and begins a rhythm unnatural. Ellaria’s head tilts back, the expanse of her neck and shoulder bare. Yara leans in and sucks hard at the skin underneath her ear as she fucks her. There may be bruises on her neck in the morning, but she senses that Ellaria won’t care. 

There’s a real strength in Yara’s arm and hand, she could carry on here like this for hours -- and plans to. Nothing is so invigorating as shattering a woman into a thousand shards, only to do it again and again and again. Nothing is as fun as learning what a woman likes by the tenor of her sighs and her moans. Nothing is like fucking a woman, nothing. 

With a low keen, Ellaria’s eyes go wide and Yara can feel the sudden crash of her sex against her fingers, a lovely sensation, and Yara keeps going. She attempts to kiss her, but Ellaria dodges, moaning instead and breathing sharp. “I need more,” she gasps out, and intrigued, Yara jerks her hand hard before thrusting in with more fingers. Thinking through it, she also bends her head to bite down on Ellaria’s nipple, a rough sort of kiss of teeth and tongue. The woman becomes almost fully lax in her arms, succumbing to this barrage of sensation. Yara smiles against skin and keeps up the pace. 

When Ellaria comes, there’s an intricate dance of emotion across her face and she sighs every so prettily. Across seas and sand, Yara’s never seen something so beautiful. But if, swept away, she becomes distracted with kisses, Ellaria puts her back on task. Whispers urging words, sometimes crude and sometimes kind. 

It resolves itself like this: exhausted, Yara pulls Ellaria towards the bed they share, and lies in the middle of it. “You’ve vanquished me,” she says, and lies with her hand over her eyes. 

“When we do this again,” Ellaria says, tugging on her soft bed clothes, “I have a few things in mind to keep it interesting.” 

Yara opens her eyes, still nude and never planning to wear clothes in private around this woman ever again. “I’m always open to suggestion.”

They kiss then, the sweet and warm kisses of the satiated. They kiss until sleep takes them, pulling them out of this intimacy and into an oblivion. 

*  
If they dream of darker times, there will be peace when they wake.

#


End file.
